


Alabaster

by dfotw



Category: Merchant of Venice - Shakespeare
Genre: Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dfotw/pseuds/dfotw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“In sooth, I know now why I am so sad.”</p><p>A few weeks after the events of 'The Merchant of Venice', Antonio's life is back on track. His mood, however, is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alabaster

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to William Shakespeare.

“In sooth, I know now why I am so sad.”

There was not a friendly hand to clap Antonio’s shoulder in response to this whispered comment, no raucous riposte trying to guess the reason, no boisterous congratulations on his newfound discovery.

Antonio was alone, leaning out of the balcony and looking at the harbour, shrouded in Venice’s autumnal mists. The soft lapping of the waters at the steps of his palazzo, two stories below, and the distant calls of a couple of gondolieri were the only ones who answered the merchant and his sigh.

His presence, after being reviled when his credit proved poor, was now highly sought-after by the fickle Venetian society. His good companions, Salarino and Salanio, had now their hands full trying to contain the waves of noble people who now wanted to congratulate Antonio on escaping the danger that they themselves had done nothing to prevent. The fellow merchants who weeks before had denied him credit and watched impassibly as he was condemned to his death were now ever so desirous to make business with him and his new riches. Night and day there were throngs of people in his palace and the rooms of it were full of laughter and good wishes, but still Antonio shunned all company and spent his days alone in his rooms, wishing that time flew quickly and Venice forgot his luck.

There was only one person he wanted to see, and that person was not there.

The moon had waxed and waned and waxed again since Antonio had left Belmont and the many happy couples there, and returned to his life of bachelor in Venice. The weeks had passed and no word had come from Bassanio. The last memory Antonio had of him was of his back, covered in a rich doublet that he had never been able to afford in his life as a poor gentleman, as he bent towards Portia, their attention turned towards each other and away from the boat that bore Antonio away.

“The better part of my affections doth now lie with my hopes abroad indeed… O my Bassanio!”

There was a knock on the door and that same man who had once professed that his part in this stage that is the world was a sad one turned now with such an eager countenance towards that call that none of his closest acquaintances would have recognised him.

“Sir, my good sir?” called Salanio’s voice, and Antonio’s eyes dimmed with the same speed they had lit up.

“Aye, dear friend? Do come in…”

“Sir, there is a messenger here that it might be your leisure to attend.”

Salanio smiled at him, the smile he had whenever he felt he had done something of which Antonio, later rather than sooner, would approve. The merchant, although reluctantly, returned that smile.

“Who is this so gracefully introduced? Is it the fair Iris herself that comes to visit me?”

“Not quite as fair, my lord, nor quite as bright, but I think you will not be all the worse for having seen him,” replied Salanio, moving forwards to reveal the lanky figure of Launcelot standing on the doorway, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another and looking as ridiculous in his gaudy livery as a common dove clad in a peacock’s finery.

“Ah!” said Antonio, and found that he could say no more; it was Bassanio’s man, wearing Bassanio’s livery, and after weeks of absence, it was enough to rob him of his speech.

Fortunately, the man himself had enough words to fill that silence, and several silences more, as he went on and on in florid verbiage about the whys and wherefores that his good master and fair mistress had seen fit to return him to Venice with a letter for the lord Antonio.

The merchant barely had enough patience to listen to the clown’s speech and not rip the letter from his hands, and it was Salanio, good Salanio, who finally pressed the messenger to deliver his note and suffer himself to be ushered away with the promise of a good meal in the kitchens.

Salanio himself remained for a moment in the doorway as Antonio stared at the letter in his hands.

“Though I hate to compare myself in any measure with Gratiano, sir, I must say that his once foolish words have some sense now, and that I am glad that this messenger and the letter he bore have brought some blood to your cheeks and something akin to a smile to your lips. It has been sad to see you turn to cold alabaster since your encounter with the Jew.”

Antonio smiled, both at being caught in his faults and at the warm regard reflected in Salanio’s words.

“Thank you, my good friend. I will bear that in mind and force my blood to flow more lively in the future.”

Salanio nodded and left, closing the door behind him to ensure that his lord would have the necessary quiet to read the letter arrived from Belmont.

 _My Antonio,  
I hope this letter finds you as well  
as my prayers and thoughts wish you to be.  
Your life, that my fair Portia so cleverly rescued, is still  
the dearest thing to me, next to you heart,  
and I envy Venice, not for all her riches or her husband, the Sea,  
but for having your presence, whereas I am left  
with nought but your sweet memory. I pray you,  
do not forget your dear friend Bassanio,  
who has given you as much grief as joy he wished to grant you,  
and who sends you his love along with this letter,  
since his heart you have since long ago._

Antonio read the letter ten times, and then a hundred more, drinking in equally the loving words, the haphazard penmanship of his young friend and the touch of the parchment that Bassanio’s long hands must have touched not so long before.

Only when he could tear his eyes away from the letter (when he could swear he knew the words by heart), did he look around himself and realise his position.

There he was, one of Venice’s richest men, and one of the most beloved by its citizens, alone in his gloomy, empty quarters, pining for the memory of one who thought equally of him, even in the distance. There he was, a man who had been reborn at the Duke’s court by the clever mind of a lady who had then proceeded to, seemingly, take all the reasons to live from his grasp, basking in his imaginary misfortune like he had not done when all seemed lost.

“Salanio! Salarino!” he called, flinging open the door to his room and striding into the corridor, still clutching Bassanio’s letter.

“Sir?” “My lord?”

“Prepare a fine supper for tonight, for this eve we shall feast,” said Antonio. “I have failed to celebrate many things for which I should be thankful, and we must not let this continue any longer!”

If the gentlemen’s expressions were the guide to their hearts, they were full of joyful surprise.

For the rest of the afternoon, the palazzo was a chaos of coming and going, of guests and servants, of cooks and musicians, of fools and courtiers, all preparing the palazzo for the evening.

An evening of food and song took Antonio’s mind off many of his troubles, so it was with a light step and a lighter heart that he returned to his rooms late into the night, Bassanio’s letter safely kept in his bosom, where it warmed his cold soul even more than the voices of his friends or the laughter of his guests.

He walked into his rooms, after waving off the servant that carried a candle to light his way, and started disrobing, his mind half taken by the enterprises he wanted to accomplish, half busy remembering the words of the letter.

“Antonio?”

His heart, which had been gladdened by the wine and song of which he had partaken, stopped for a full moment before he turned around.

Half-dressed, eyes heavy with sleep, barely outlined by the firelight, Bassanio rested face-down on Antonio’s bed, a slow smile curving his lips as he took in the surprise on the face of his bosom friend.

“Bassanio, my sweet Bassanio?” asked Antonio in a mere whisper, afraid his breath would dissipate the kind genius or teasing phantom that had taken the shape of his loved one.

“Forsooth, I was of a mind that you would never arrive...” Bassanio sat up on the bed, his shirt falling open. “O my Antonio, will you forgive my sudden and unannounced arrival? After I wrote down that letter for you, I had the feeling that I would languish and die if my eyes didn’t behold you soon and I stole away in the same ship that brought my man Launcelot to you...”

“Bassanio...” Antonio laughed, the first time since the feast Portia had arranged in Belmont to bid him farewell. “Have you waited long for my presence? Why did you not ask the servants to summon me?”

“I would have surprised you,” admitted the younger man with a smile that was made one part of coyness and one of mischief.

Antonio laughed again at this admission, and approached the bed, whilst a part of him still feared that Bassanio’s form would disappear in mist and dreams before he could touch it.

“You have surprised me,” he whispered, his hand outstretched, but not yet touching Bassanio.

“And I would surprise you more,” continued the young gentleman, his voice the merest of murmurs, as he leant forwards and pressed a burning kiss to the back of Antonio’s hand.

The firelight made the shadows on the wall dance, although not as wildly as the bodies on the bed.

The following morning, Antonio woke first and left his room in search of a servant that would put together a cold repast for him and his young friend to break the fast.

“Milord, if I may have your suffering for a moment...”

The unmistakable shape and speech of Launcelot found him on the corridor.

“What is it, my man?”

“Mistress Portia wished me to give you this for your eyes.”

Antonio stared at the small package in his hands for a long moment and by the time he looked up, the servant had disappeared.

A single sheet of parchment was wrapped around the pair of scented gloves he had worn the day of his trial, and that he had given the young doctor in law who had rescued him from the saddest fate.

 _My lord Antonio,  
Pray take these again, and with them, my deepest regrets.  
I saw and I longed for a gift that was  
not mine to have, or to keep, or to ask for.  
This gift I return to your hands,  
that will keep it safe as I could never do.  
My dear Bassanio will undertake some duties  
that I, in my position, cannot, and that will  
force him to spend much time in Venice,  
where I need not say that I trust you  
to keep his mind and heart where they should be._

“A lady of wondrous virtues indeed,” said the merchant after having read the letter, grasping his gloves like hours before he had grasped Bassanio’s flesh.

With a smile on his lips, and looking as unlike an alabaster statue as it is possible for a man to look and still regain some of his dignity, he returned to his quarters, more mundane matters forgotten for the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [my LJ](http://dfotw.livejournal.com/12232.html); you can comment here or there.


End file.
